Another Poem

Last night both the boys (young men now really!) were home, for the first time, in months. Both slept in their old beds in their old rooms and both woke, this morning, at a later hour than both their parents. Home, after leaving home. A gift the weekend before Thanksgiving.


And this morning, this, another poem, from The Writer's Almanac, dropped in:


First Thanksgiving

When she comes back, from college, I will see
the skin of her upper arms, cool,
matte, glossy. She will hug me, my old
soupy chest against her breasts,
I will smell her hair! She will sleep in this apartment,
her sleep like an untamed, good object,
like a soul in a body. She came into my life the
second great arrival, after him, fresh
from the other world--which lay, from within him,
within me, Those nights, I fed her to sleep,
week after week, the moon rising,
and setting, and waxing--whirling, over the months,
in a slow blur, around our planet.
Now she doesn't need love like that, she has
had it. She will walk in glowing, we will talk,
and then, when she's fast asleep, I'll exult
to have her in that room again,
behind that door! As a child, I caught
bees, by the wings, and held them, some seconds,
looked into their wild faces,
listened to them sing, then tossed them back
into the air--I remember the moment the
arc of my toss swerved, and they entered
the corrected curve of their departure.

"First Thanksgiving" by Sharon Olds, from Strike Sparks: Selected Poems 1980-2002.